


Second Helpings

by leiascully



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M, meme: Fics I'll Never Write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-14
Updated: 2007-08-14
Packaged: 2017-10-03 06:25:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There you are, slaving over a hot stove, just like a woman ought to."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Helpings

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: N/A  
> A/N: [**sangria_lila**](http://sangria-lila.livejournal.com/) wanted to see Cuddy making House lunch all 1950s-style. For the "Fics I'll never write" meme.  
> Disclaimer: _House M.D._ and all related characters are the property of Shore Z, Bad Hat Harry, and Fox. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

"God, I hate you," Cuddy said, pushing her damp hair away from her face.

"You lost the bet," House said, smug behind his scotch and soda. He swirled the glass and set the ice cubes clinking. "That was the risk you took."

"It didn't have to be the hottest day of the year," she said.

"There you are, slaving over a hot stove, just like a woman ought to," he said. "Bend over a little more. I want to see if your stocking seams go all the way up."

She glared at him. "You're getting pot roast and mashed potatoes. Nothing else was in the deal."

"What if I want brisket?" He blinked at her with wide-eyed put-upon innocence. She narrowed her eyes at him. He drained his drink and rattled the glass at her. "How about you get your man a refill?"

"You're not my man," she said, taking the glass angrily. "It was just a stupid bet. You of all men ought to be more enlightened than to yearn for the 1950s. I thought domesticity was a swear word around you."

"I love a woman with a dirty mouth," he leered, snapping his fingers at the hem of her skirt as she walked to the fridge and sloshed a measure of soda on top of the fresh scotch. She slapped the glass down on the kitchen island. "Easy, woman."

"You wish." She sulked over to the oven and dragged on a mitt. The blast of hot air as she opened the door stung her eyes. The meat wasn't quite done yet, so she just grabbed the head of roasting garlic and let the door slam closed. She opened the lid of the pressure cooker and poked the potatoes with a fork, steam billowing up around her face. God, it was hot. The sun was beating in through the window and the steam was melting her makeup off and she had a meeting at two thirty even though it was her day off and to top it all off, she was in a sweater vest, a skirt, heels, and pearls. House's goddamned vision of the perfect woman, bending over a hot stove. She squeezed the head of garlic with deep satisfaction, visualizing House's head, and fished for the masher. House made slurping noises and exaggerated sighs of refreshment behind her as sweat prickled down her back and legs. If there had to be a man in her kitchen watching her cook, couldn't it at least be one she had a chance of seducing? It had been a long hot summer without so much as a kiss, and she was tired of sharing her bed with the vibrator. But House, House was all talk. He'd get up in her personal space until it drove them both crazy, but he never made a move. She closed her eyes tight and wished that he would turn into Colin Firth or Brad Pitt or anybody strong and intelligent and not prone to lecherous commentary.

"That's it," House murmured as she pounded the potatoes into creamy submission, splashing in milk and melted butter. "Work it, baby. Pepper those potatoes, mmm-mm."

She craned her head over her shoulder. "Are you trying to be obnoxious?"

He pushed the scotch away and hobbled to the fridge, reaching in and grabbing a beer. "Just my special skill." He knocked the bottle against the edge of the counter; the top popped off and hit her on the ass. He crowed. "Fifty points!"

"House, you are on my last nerve this afternoon." She mashed the potatoes with a vengeance, her shoulder aching a little and her legs warm where the heat from the oven was radiating.

"I could think of some other nerves to get on," he said.

"So I'm to take it this bet isn't really about pot roast so much as it is annoying your way into my pants?" she asked, scraping the sides of the pot.

"That's about the size of it," he said, and something in his voice made her turn around. She stared at him. He stared at her, blue eyes inscrutable. A chill ran down her spine and fanned out over her hips; she moved her slightly sweaty thighs against each other under the skirt.

"Let me get this straight. The whole idiotic bet was an excuse to try to get into my pants?"

He put his cheek against his beer bottle. "I told you. I want to see if the seams go all the way up." She looked at him, still clutching the masher in one hand. He licked his lips, looking more self-conscious than creepy. She cocked her hip and stood with her weight on one foot, her thighs sliding as the memory of sex brought up the dampness between her legs. He had to be good in bed: more than once she'd caught Stacy in a dreamy reverie, back in the day. If she were going to be honest with herself, Brad Pitt was never going to show up anyway. It wasn't as if capitulating to House could be called settling anyway. And God knew she could use a little afternoon delight.

"Let's get to it," she said, and clicked off the oven.

He looked startled but recovered quickly. She peeled off the sweater vest over her head and left it draped across a chair. He had his hand up her skirt and her lips at the neck before they were halfway down the hall, him leaning against her in lieu of the cane, her breasts pressed against his chest as her spine arched against his weight. He hooked his fingers into the lace at the top of her thigh-highs as they dropped together onto her bed.

"Looks like they don't go all the way up," he growled into her bra, peeling the stockings down.

"The legs do," she parried, wrapping one leg around his hips as she worked at the button on his jeans. He pulled at her shirt so hard a button came off and he helped her shimmy out of her skirt as she slid his jeans down his legs. He stripped off his own t-shirt as she reached for a condom. They both sighed as she slid down over him, riding him backwards, her hands braced alongside his thighs.

"You are a woman with a brilliant understanding of torque and pressure," he panted. "It's like you went to whore academy instead of med school. Lots of personal physics seminars."

"Shut up or I'll grab your thigh and squeeze," she said, shivering as he ran his fingers down her back and over her ass. He was hard and hot inside her and she could feel her stress dissipating as a whole new tension gripped her muscles.

"I'm just enjoying the brisket," he gasped. There was a rattling noise behind her and she looked down to see his hand sliding over her thigh as he flicked on the vibrator. The tip nested against her clit and she moaned. She rocked her hips as she reached down to cup his balls, rolling them over her fingers, and he hissed between his teeth and squeezed her ass with his free hand. It was as if the heat of the afternoon suddenly condensed into a ball of liquid flame that started under her collarbone and spilled down through her ribs to her hips as she shuddered with the pleasure of it, jerking against the vibrator and House's hold on her. She kept moving lazily, the buzz of the vibrator almost painful against her oversensitive clit, and House pinched her ass.

"Come on," he urged. "Don't leave me hanging."

"Revenge is sweet," she said, but picked up the pace, squirming against the toy. House grunted as she moved and clutched her ankle where it lay tucked against his ribs. She was rising again, caught between him and herself, but too soon he was gasping and limp under her, and she came back from the brink, slightly surly, and pulled the cord on the fan before she threw herself down beside him. The cool air washed over her damp skin as she watched his chest rise and fall. He grabbed the vibrator from where it had fallen among the sheets and knocked the batteries out.

"That's etiquette," she said, clutching the pillow.

"I am first and foremost a man of manners," he said. "So I'll say please when I tell you to get up and make me a sandwich. Make sure there's gravy."

"Make your own sandwich," she said. "I have a meeting in an hour and a half and I have to look presentable." She rolled out of bed and grabbed her robe from a chair, the tile of the bathroom cool under her bare feet.

"You're leaving me on my own in your precious abode?" he asked, dragging the sheet over himself.

"As if there's any hope of you leaving before you find out whether there's a second course," she said, and stepped into the shower. By the time she got out of the bathroom, he was asleep, nuzzling her pillows, his bad leg cocked across the bed. She smiled and touched her pearls. She just hoped there'd be some pot roast left when she got home. Mom's recipes never failed.


End file.
